


Of All the Fencing Clubs in the World

by roguish



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Fencing, M/M, Sports, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguish/pseuds/roguish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick just wanted to get through high school and obtain a scholarship to Northwestern.  He didn't expect to meet a cocky fencer named Pete Wentz at his new fencing club, and he certainly hadn't expected to develop an embarrassing crush on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All the Fencing Clubs in the World

**Author's Note:**

> tw for drug and alcohol use and references
> 
> their ages were collapsed for a much smaller age gap.
> 
> special thanks to [dark_willow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_willow/profile) and [fro_baby](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fro_baby/pseuds/fro_baby) for editing and encouraging me.
> 
> i also recognize that northwestern only has a women's team, but shhhh, this is fiction, let's just pretend that they have a men's team that is just as good as the women's team (which is quite good to say the least).

Patrick finally gave up on his fencing club at the end of his junior year of high school.  There were only so many gay slurs he could handle being thrown in his face by boys from the local Catholic school, so he dug up the number of a referee who used to take pity on him and give him advice during youth competitions years ago.  After giving Billie Joe a call to find out what time he could attend open bouting, he began mentally preparing himself to deal with meeting new people and proving his worth as a fencer yet again.

After returning from summer nationals in Columbus Ohio (Patrick always scowled about how the US fencing association was the shittiest organization and needed to choose better venues), Patrick piled his rolling equipment bag into his seventeen year old car, drove to the train station, then took the forty minute train ride from Glenview to Chicago.  The club was a short walk from the train station, which he dealt with gracefully for someone dragging a giant wheeled duffel bag full of swords.  He trudged up a flight of stairs to an open space featuring eight strips for fencing built into the floor.  A complex wiring system was rigged to the ceiling, and the walls were striped with large blocks of dark green and black.  It was smaller than Patrick's old club, but the benefits of not being called a f*ggot most practices generally outweighed having less time on the strip.

When Patrick first walked into the new club, he looked around lost and slightly doe eyed.  Billie Joe appeared to be in the middle of a lesson and hadn't noticed Patrick’s arrival .

"Hey, do you need some direction?" Possibly the hottest, yet also douchiest person Patrick had ever met suddenly appeared in front of him.

He had spiky black hair, a lean and short figure, and olive skin covered in tattoos on his arms and collarbone.  The inked necklace of thorns around his neck was left exposed by a low cut black Metallica tank top, which was tucked into his very tight fencing knickers.  He also had the cockiest expression that suggested that he was full of shit, but Patrick was a little too distracted by the pants to mind.

"I could use some help." Patrick accepted the guy's offer. "This is my first time here."

"Cool.  I'm Pete.  We keep our equipment up against the wall with the benches," Pete said as they walked through the club, "And we try to stick to a more structured routine, so people don't just show up and dick around instead of fencing.  It is likely that Billie Joe made that decision just for me."

Patrick laughed a little. "Good to know.  I'm Patrick.  I'm switching clubs from Escrime."

"Shit, that sucks.  My condolences for dealing with those assholes.  If it helps, I beat Chris Gutierrez, so he couldn't renew his B rating at the last ROC.  I think I saw him crying afterwards, which is always satisfying." Pete referenced the star fencer at Patrick's old club.

"That is actually very comforting," Patrick smiled at him, "That asshole deserves it."

"I'm glad," Pete checked his watch, "I'm leading warm-ups while Billie Joe gives a lesson, so you should get ready for that."

Patrick nodded, and changed into his Adidas and knee high socks.

"Are you in school?" Patrick feebly attempted to keep his really hot new acquaintance from wandering away.

"Yeah.  I finished my first year at DePaul.  I'm a poli sci major.  What about you?"

"I'm going into my Senior year at Glenbrook South." Not only was Pete a million times more attractive than Patrick, he was also older than him.

Patrick finished putting his shoes on.  Pete stuck out his hands to help Patrick to a standing position. 

Patrick blushed wildly, took his hands, and hoisted himself to his feet with a little bounce.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"No problem," Pete grinned at him.

Pete led him to a warm up ladder laid out on the floor, and he lined up behind Pete, followed by a bunch of people who looked like younger kids, with a few other college age students in the mix.

They started a series of warm ups jumping through the rungs, Pete's hair bouncing excessively and Patrick desperately trying to keep up with his pace.  Billie Joe joined the group of students for a footwork group lesson, where he excitedly greeted Patrick.

During bouting, Patrick asked Pete to fence with him.

"Sure, we'll just hook up...on the first strip," Pete winked at him.

"How long did you say you've been fencing?" Patrick asked.

"Eight years."

"Shouldn't the innuendos lose their novelty after you turn, like, thirteen?"

"Not when I'm talking about you," Pete shot him a tacky smile.

Patrick laughed at him, since Pete was clearly joking and seemed like the type of person who actually did continue to laugh about the same innuendos for eight whole years.  Patrick attached his body cord to the reel and plugged in his foil.  He quickly saluted Pete and tested their equipment before heading to the on guard line and starting the bout.

Patrick immediately started preparing for an attack that any classically trained coach would approve of, yet as soon as he was in range to finish his disengages, Pete executed an obnoxious flick to his right shoulder.  Patrick attempted to finish his attack despite the rapid fire flick which interrupted his action, but the machine timed him out and only Pete's touch registered as an actual touch, awarding a point to Pete.  Patrick was pissed; counter attacks don't teach anything, and Pete's actions clearly signified that Pete cared more about beating Patrick than actual learning the techniques coaches taught them.  Regardless, Patrick gave Pete the benefit of the doubt, and assumed that the counter attack stemmed from momentary laziness.

However, after starting the next action, with Patrick prepared for another possible cheap shot, Pete just lands a coupé despite not having priority, which looks and is just as douchey as it sounds.  Patrick gets awarded the touch, since this time he landed his attack on time.  The bout progressed in much the same manner.  Pete revealing his garish style more and with greater ridiculous flourishes as they fenced.  Patrick almost outright laughed at him as he attempted a fleche that absolutely did not work.  The most infuriating part of it was that Pete was succeeding while fencing in this ridiculous manner.  Worst of all, he beat Patrick, nine to ten.  Patrick plastered a smile on his face, despite the frustration in his own fencing abilities, and said "Thank you," and "Good bout," to Pete.  Pete grinned at him and returned the pleasantries.

"How long have you been fencing?" Pete asked while the two of them took a water break after a long series of bouts.

"Six years," Patrick said, "I started when I was twelve."

"I did too!" Pete responded.

"So, Metallica?" Patrick asked.

"Yup.  Are you a fan?"

"Nope."

"What?" Pete clutched at his chest with a mocking expression. "How?"

"Just not my thing," Patrick shrugged.

He had tried to get into them at one point, since, as a metal enthusiast, he felt like it was his job to like all genres, but he found himself drifting back to the same stuff he liked, which incidentally made him seem like a middle aged dad crossed with a sexually confused teenage girl.

"Okay, then what is your thing?"

"Do you want the embarrassing version?"

"Hell yes," Pete said.

"Hall and Oates, David Bowie, Elvis Costello, a bit of punk, a lot of blues and jazz, like Miles Davis, and Boris and Sunn O))) when I'm in the mood for metal."

Pete laughed at him.

"What?  I like good music."

"You are kinda trash."

Patrick huffed indignantly and was about to launch into a tirade.

"I know you're about to give me a long winded speech filled with pretentiousness, but I assure you, you can skip it," Pete said.

"Fuck you," Patrick said.

"We just met, Pattycakes.  That's awfully forward of you," Pete somehow managed to wiggle his eyebrows like the little shit he is.

Patrick just responded by flipping him off.  Clearly, Pete's immaturity was not limited to dirty fencing puns.

"We are going to be bfff's," Pete said assuredly.

"You threw in an extra "f" there."

"Nope.  Best Fencing Friends Forever."

"You're such an asshole," Patrick shook his head.

"See this is great!  You've already skipped to the stage of friendship where we rampantly insult each other as measures of endearment.  Since we're at stage three now, it won't be long until I'll be having dinner with your parents and texting you asking if you intend to join us."

Patrick tried not to laugh, but he couldn't help it.  Pete was kinda a dick, which did confirm his initial impression of him, but he was also clever and funny and he was still hot.  Patrick hated it.  He didn't need this kind of stress and sexual frustration right in the midst of the college application process.

"I think I should actually fence," Patrick reluctantly said.

"That would probably be a good idea.  I tried to warn you earlier that I am a bad influence and under-motivated."

Patrick tried not to be too pissed off about that.  Patrick worked his ass off for his fencing abilities.  His friends at school sometimes made fun of his inability to shut up about fencing, and Bob was never letting it go that he read a book about the psychology of fencing in his free time.  He couldn't help but feel stabs of jealousy that Pete could be so nonchalant about the sport yet be so good at it.

Patrick finally wandered away from Pete and found someone else to fence, a young kid named Ryan.  He looked wistfully towards Pete who had moved on to an exciting looking conversation with someone else as he prepared for the bout.

-

"Trohman, speed it up!" Pete yelled from behind Joe Trohman, an epee fencer Patrick had become friendly with over the past few weeks at the club.  
  
Patrick found out a few weeks earlier that Joe went to high school with him and was even in the same class year.  Since Joe was not also involved in band, the gay-straight alliance, or social justice club, Patrick had not interacted with Joe Trohman prior to their meeting at Billie Joe's club.  However, he enjoyed talking with Joe, especially about playing music, even if Joe was more into distortion peddles than Patrick could ever understand.

Joe was a tad sluggish during the exercises on the ladder, causing the rest of the fencers to pile up behind him impatiently, but he effectively led a stretching circle.  Billie Joe instructed them to skip footwork, so he could lead a group of beginners.

"Patrick, what have we been working on in lessons?" Billie Joe turned his attention on Patrick, before leaving the group of experienced fencers.

"Not having static feints," Patrick said.

"That's important.  Everyone can work on that.  Teach everyone the last sequence we worked on in our most recent lesson."

Patrick couldn't help but feel a stab of pride that Billie Joe trusted him to lead something as important as drills, and he was also probably too happy that Billie Joe was prioritizing what he specifically needed to work on.

He grabbed an open strip with Pete on the foil side of the club.

They set themselves up for the drill and started moving back and forth across the strip as they worked on improving their feints and tightening their disengages.  They critiqued each other's form as they worked for a while, but eventually both of them descended into boredom from repeating the same action endlessly.  Drills were definitely the worst part of practice, no matter what the coaches said, especially since Patrick still didn't quite understand how to transfer most of them to his abilities in competition.

"Patrickkk," Pete started in a whiny voice, "When are we going to be done.  I haven't had a chance to tell you about yesterday's band practice."

Patrick had learned a lot about Pete in the past few weeks, including that Pete was the lead singer (in the loosest sense of the term) of a screamo band.

"Pete, no," Patrick cut him off before he could continue with informing him of the most recent series of antics his band mates had gotten involved with.

"Why?" Pete's whining jumped up an octave.

"Because I need to get this down.  I'm still only a B rated fencer.  I need to get my shit together by the next NAC, so I can have a chance at getting a scholarship to Northwestern," Patrick said.

 

Despite the mask obscuring Pete’s face, Patrick could see the scowl that Pete adopted as soon as he mentioned the USFA ranking system.

"Fuck that, Patrick.  It should be about abilities not ratings, or that's something that your more rational side along with Billie Joe would say anyways," Pete brightened, "And this is such a great story."

"Yeah, I mean sure, I don't want to be an asshole about ratings, because that's a shitty attitude, but like I was just trying to make a point.  We need to keep doing this drill," Patrick said.

"Sure whatever," Pete rolled his eyes, "But then I get to tell you this story."

"Yeah okay, let's do that then," Patrick said.

He lasted three more minutes before he felt like his arm was going to fall off and his mind was going to snap from the redundancy.

"Alright fine, tell me what your shitty band is up to."

Pete's face lit up with a goofy grin, "Excellent!  I knew even you, the president of the stick up your ass club of overworked athletes, would give up eventually, and, besides, we are not a shitty band."

"Sometimes I swear I am older than you." Patrick wondered how he still harbored a crush on Pete.

Pete launched into the story about the band's shenanigans, which by some miracle ended with them getting a spot in a show.

"Wow Pete," Patrick started to congratulate him.

Before he could finish, Pete butted in, his tone falling away from his excited storytelling mode, "I mean it's just in the basement of the house that the leaders of the punk club on campus live in.  It's not like it's a big thing."

"It's still cool Pete; cooler than the children's theater production of Into the Woods I'm playing in the pit for," Patrick referenced the end of the year production at the summer theater camp he worked at as a counselor.

"Hey, don't knock Into the Woods.  That sounds pretty edgy and cool to me.  I mean for one, you are definitely going to have a larger crowd than my band's show."

Patrick grinned, "That's true.  We could show up to each other's shows in the clothes we are wearing for the ones we are playing in.  That would throw people off."

"Ah yes you in a suit in the punks' basement.  You'd fit right in." Pete's laugh turned into an obnoxious bray, which Patrick found himself not bothered by in the least.

"I'm sure your eyeliner and tattoos would fit right in next to the over eager stage moms."

"No, but actually, I would love to support you and go to the show," Pete said.

"That's ridiculous.  I'm just in the pit."

"It's still important to you, and I want to be there for you," Pete said.

Patrick shook his head in amazement, "There's no use in me saying no to you since you would just look up when it is and show up anyways, but you have to let me attend your first show then."

"I would love that.  There's no one I would rather have cheering me on," Pete said.

Before Patrick could fully revel in what Pete had just said, he realized what he had just agreed to.  Pete would be seen with him at his school in a basement with cool college students.  He barely had any friends outside of fencing aside from Bob and Ray, and he was a weird looking highschooler whose wardrobe consisted mainly of sweaters and strange hats.

"I was just kidding," he attempted to backtrack, "I mean you can just come to my show.  The part about going to yours was a joke I don't need to do that.  It's not like they're equal."

Pete's face clouded over, "But I though you said...I really wanted by BFFF there."

"That's funny and all, but there's no way I would fit in with that crowd.  It's a bit different than you showing up at a theater camp's production looking out of place.  There will be plenty of weird family members there, so you will fit in."

"So?"

"What do you mean so?  Pete I'm a dorky highschooler; you don't want to be seen with me," Patrick said, exasperated.

"What the fuck Patrick?  Of course I want to be seen with you.  You're amazing.  You are coming to my gig," Pete said.

Patrick blushed, and Pete whacked him in the head with his foil for extra emphasis.

"Ouch!"

"Bullshit, you can't feel that through your mask."

"What of it?"

Pete shook his head at Patrick and said, "Let's stop pretending we're drilling and just start bouting."

"Wow Pete, taking initiative to practice.  Hell must be freezing over."

"That's so cliché," Pete wrinkled his nose at Patrick.

"Pot, kettle: king of overdramatic bullshit and shitty puns," Patrick said.

"Point taken."

They started fencing each other.  Patrick beat Pete by a small margin that day.  After spending an hour and a half bouting, Patrick and Pete changed t-shirts and shoes and packed up their equipment, and coincidentally started heading out at the same time.

"I'm starving," Pete said.

"Same.  I didn't eat dinner yet," Patrick said.

"I ate dinner, but apparently a bowl of lucky charms doesn't really cut it for my stomach."

"Twenty year olds generally need to eat more than that." Patrick shook his head at Pete. "I was gonna just heat up leftovers, but we can grab something instead?"

Patrick looked hopefully at Pete, who answered immediately, "Sounds good.  Chipotle?"

"Sure," Patrick agreed; it was a step up from all the other fast food places in the area.

"Dudes," Joe had apparently overheard them, "Chipotle is my life.  Can I come too?"

"Noooooo," Patrick just barely stopped himself from shouting out.

"I mean I don't want to crash anyone's date or anything," Joe said.

Patrick knew Joe was joking, but he really hoped he wasn't imagining the look of disappointment on Pete's face as he said, "Yeah, you can totally come with us."

Joe finished throwing his equipment in his bag and joined the two of them.  They headed out, trailed by their three giant gear bags.

They dragged themselves the two blocks to the train station, complaining about their sore legs, and made the train that Patrick usually took home.  They found a four seater with two rows facing each other, in which Patrick was able to enjoy the feel of Pete's knees tucked up against his in the narrow space between the seats.

"How high are you?" Pete asked Joe.

"I'm coming down," Joe confessed.

"I am kind of impressed man," Pete said, "I would not be able to fence while stoned.  I would probably just stop and start laughing."

Patrick snorted, "That explains the quality of warm-ups."

"I didn't know I would be high.  It's just that I haven't gotten any time away from my nagging parents in forever, so I just lit up in the car at the train station," Joe shrugged.

"You are a disaster," Patrick said.

"That is true, and I am also so ready for Chipotle.  I would live off of Chipotle if I could."

"Why am I not surprised?" Patrick said.

"The only downside is that their gauc is so expensive.  $1.80 is wild for a tiny bit of avocado," Pete said.

Joe nodded in agreement, "But I don't even care.  I would suck dick for that guac...wait, I have."

Pete and Patrick laughed.

Patrick saw the opportunity and took the risk, "What would you suck dick for Pete?"

"I don't need an enticement for that," Pete answered quickly without giving it a second thought. "But wait Joe, I'm still stuck on what you said.  How did this arrangement work out?"

"He said he would go all the way to Chipotle, buy me a burrito bowl, but the stipulation was that the gauc could only be consumed off of his dick," Joe shrugged.

"Just kidding.  That was actually way more information than I needed," Pete said.

"I can't decide if that's gross, hot, or if it just doesn't matter because Chipotle guac," Patrick added.

After getting off the train, they started heading towards their cars.

"I can take Pete.  He would probably be safer with me driving," Patrick knew he was stretching it, but he was kind of desperate and Pete's tight jeans were twisting his thought processes to closer resemble how he imagined Joe's brain was functioning at that moment.

"Whatever." Joe wandered off towards his car, seeming not to care either way.

Patrick led Pete to his ancient Honda Accord, where they hauled their bags into Pete's trunk and climbed into the car.

"I'll even let you have some of my guac," Patrick said.

"Wow, you're the best BFFF ever!" Pete leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Patrick nearly swerved off the road in shock.  He tried to work through his thoughts, since Pete had kissed his cheek, what the fuck.  Was this some bro-y sport thing akin to slapping a teammate's ass (dear God, he hoped Pete would do that next), or was it something more?  The fact that the peck was paired with that comment suggested it was just Pete being a dick, but Pete wasn't exactly a sports bro.  Fencing was a nerdy sport, which explained Patrick's participation in the sport, and Pete was the type of guy who didn't have any friends on his high school soccer team.

"If you expanded the acronym you would find that sentence to be the most redundant thing ever," he finally got his wits together enough to respond, having decided to go with focusing on what Pete had said before The Kiss.

They pulled up to the Chipotle a few seconds later.

-

The post-practice outing to Chipotle broke some sort of boundary between Pete and Patrick.  They started hanging out outside of practice: spending time at each others' houses, more Chipotle, and going to the mall occasionally.  Joe sometimes joined them, and there were other friends as well, such as a sabre fencer from the club named Andy.  The amount Patrick enjoyed their hangouts generally more than compensated for the minor spats that his friendship with Pete entailed.

As it neared the end of August, Patrick's summer job also came to a close, and the production happened the night after the last day of camp.  Patrick found himself more nervous than he had expected himself to be.  He couldn't deny that the nerves were due to Pete's presence in the crowd.  His family hadn't even shown up, since he had told them that it was just about the kids and it was an inconsequential performance for work.  Kevin and his mother had argued with him for a bit, but they had given up after a while.  It wasn't that they weren't dedicated and supportive; they attended all of his school performances and traveled with him around the country for fencing.

As soon as Patrick started playing the drums, he felt himself falling into a comfortable rhythm, and his nerves drifted away, with thoughts of Pete disappearing into the periphery.  The show went quickly, and the kids performed well.

He emerged into the theater, among the audience, where the kids would start piling out when they finished in the dressing room.  As Patrick milled around the front with the rest of the pit musicians and crew who comprised the theater's staff, he saw Pete striding towards him from the back few rows.

"Patrick!" he called out, thankfully dressed in properly fitting jeans, a t-shirt, and eyeliner slightly more understated than usual.

Pete wrapped Patrick in a tight hug as soon as he made it to the front.

"You played great!" Pete said.

"You probably couldn't even tell the difference either way," Patrick said.

"You wound me.  I'm in a band!"

Patrick gave him a pointed look that spoke on its own.

The kids started wandering out of the dressing rooms, joining the crowd of parents and staff at the front.  Some of them ran straight to their families, but others joined Patrick instead.

A kid named Spencer started jumping up and down as he latched onto Patrick's arm.

"Patrick!  Patrick!   Did I hit the notes right?" Spencer still looked exhilarated from the performance.

"You were amazing!  You stayed on pitch really well," Patrick said.

"Yay!  Thanks!" Spencer suddenly frowned, "Patrick will you be my teacher in the fall?"

"No, sorry Spence, I still need to go to school too, as much as I want to teach you," Patrick said.

Patrick really would miss the kids.  Despite how often he found himself frustrated and annoyed, they were generally really fun, and he loved seeing the ridiculous antics they came up with, especially in theater classes.  The days had been long, but they were worth it beyond the money -- which he needed.  He would still babysit during the year, but it wouldn't be the same.

A woman joined the kids huddled around Patrick. "Spencer is this your counselor?"

"Yeah!  This is Patrick!  He's the best," Patrick ducked his head as Spencer praised him.

"Hi," she stuck her hand out for Patrick to shake, "I'm Debby, Spencer's mother.  He's talked about you a lot and I wanted to thank you.  He said you're a fencer and were very enthusiastic about that, so I was wondering if you could give me an email address or name of someplace where Spencer could get involved with that?"

"Yeah! Definitely.  This is my friend Pete, he fences with me, so we can answer your questions.  I can write down contact information for you."

Pete who had stepped back from the crowd, waved shyly at Spencer and his mother.

"Ooh," Spencer turned his attention onto Pete. "Patrick said there's different types of fencing.  What do you fence?"

"Foil." Pete stayed back a bit, looking mildly uncomfortable.

"Cool, so does Patrick.  What should I fence if my mom lets me start?"

Pete moved in towards the group, appearing to relax with the more familiar topic. "Foil definitely."

Pete taught beginner youth classes at the club, and in turn Billie Joe didn't charge Pete, so Patrick knew Pete could be counted on to not say something horrific to Spencer in front of his mother.  Patrick let Pete rant at Spencer as he gave Billie Joe's contact information to Spencer's mother, as well as edging in a side word about his availability as a babysitter.  Some other children joined the conversation, eagerly hounding Pete on the specifics of fencing.  Patrick gave Pete a lopsided smile, before his boss interrupted him.

After squaring away some last minute details with the head of the camp, Patrick made his rounds saying goodbye to his coworkers and the rest of the kids before dragging Pete away.  Pete settled his arm around Patrick's shoulder as they left.

"Thanks for supporting me and whatever," Patrick muttered, with sudden embarrassment.

"Anything for you Trick."

-

School started at the beginning of September, Patrick returned to competing locally, but this time he finally had friends to hang out with during long breaks between the pools and direct elimination rounds.  Pete returned to college, which was thankfully still in the Chicago area and did not have a team of its own, so he continued attending practices at Billie Joe's club a few times a week.

Patrick was busy with his multiple AP classes and filling out college applications, but he kept his promise and attended Pete's first show, despite it being on a Thursday evening.  It had taken a battle of wills to convince his parents to let him go out on a school night, but it was well worth it for Patrick.  Besides, he had never asked for something like this before, which was a side effect of only having two friends before he met Pete.

He rushed through his homework to get it done early that night, although the time saved from his usual rounds of procrastination were lost to him staring at his closet fruitlessly for a solid half hour.  Megan wandered into his room at one point during this process, laughed at him, and walked out again.  He finally settled on wearing plain jeans, a green trucker hat, and a yellow Elvis Costello "My Aim is True" t-shirt.

At DePaul, he parked on the street in front of a dark blue house a block away from campus.  Pete had told him to show up around thirty minutes after the show was scheduled to start, so Patrick wasn't surprised by the group of people milling around in front of the house.  He shot a text to Pete before anxiously double checking the house number on the porch stairs roughly twenty times.

After finally gathering up the courage, he wandered past the group of crustpunks hanging out on the front lawn and promptly moved on to worrying about whether or not to knock on the door, but he found the door wide open, revealing a large number of people inside.  Patrick wandered in.  He marveled at how his first real party experience was at a college punk show, skipping right past high school keggers or whatever the popular kids did on weekends.

Patrick wandered into the house to find that it was _disgusting_. He was horrified by the grime on the floors, food stains everywhere, graffiti on the walls, torn furniture, and terrible smell which immediately invaded his nostrils.  Kids milled around the living room to Patrick's right, appearing to yell over deafening metal music.  Patrick felt his mild panic increase to a more moderate panic.  He turned to a random dude with a long pony tail who seemed to just be standing around, bobbing his head, and appraising the scene in front of him, yet his atrocious looking cargo pants and plain t-shirt made Patrick feel slightly more at ease.

"Hey!" Patrick yelled over the music, "Where would I find my friend.  His band is playing tonight."

"Try the basement, through the kitchen." the guy pointed through the hallway.

Patrick thanked him and headed off towards the kitchen.  The kitchen was worst than what he had seen of the house so far, which was impressive, considering how gross the front of the house was.  He shuddered, then assessed the doors.  There were three in the kitchen, but he could hear sound emanating from one, suggesting that that was the basement.  Patrick climbed down the stairs into a dank basement littered with beer bottles and drink stains on the dirt floor.  People were draped on the stairs and a horrifying looking stack of mattresses on the floor, but most people just stood around in a huddle on the floor, facing a small collection of instruments, where one guy stood wailing into a microphone making dog noises as he slammed on a keyboard.  Patrick was vaguely frightened.

As he reached the base of the stairs, a hand snaked out from behind a group of people and tapped his shoulder.  The person pushed their way out, revealing themselves to be Pete.

Patrick's face lit up, and he could already feel some of the tension draining out.

"Patrick!  I'm so glad you're here!" Pete attempted to say over the incessant woofing.

"This is interesting," Patrick said.

"Do you want a beer?" Pete leaned in towards Patrick's ear so they could hear each other.

The close proximity of Pete's mouth made shivers run down Patrick's spine.

Patrick shook his head declining the beer and explained that he had to drive.  Pete nodded and took a swig of his Genesee.

"Seriously though, I'm really happy you're here," Pete said.

If Patrick grinned any harder he would have pulled a muscle in his face.

"When is your band playing?"

"Next."

They settled in amongst the small yet dense crowd of people to watch the music.  It was weird but benign music, since in Patrick's opinion, everyone could do with more songs about dogs.  Pete leaned his head against Patrick's shoulder as the set continued, and Patrick zoned out, observing the swaying hardcore looking punks in the front of the crowd, closest to the musician.

After a few more minutes, the set concluded.  The crowd cheered, and Pete popped his head up from its resting place on Patrick.

"Good luck.  You'll do fantastic!" Patrick gave him a playful shove on the arm.

"You know I will," yet Patrick could hear the nerves under Pete's words.

Pete pecked Patrick on the cheek before leaving him to set up the equipment with the band.  Patrick flushed, pleasantly surprised that Pete was just as touchy with him as normal in front of Pete's peers.

After setting up for ten minutes, the band launched into their set.  Pete sounded awful, yet that didn't stop Patrick from getting so very turned on by him.  Patrick had squirmed his way to the front, so he got the whole experience of Pete's performance.  The screaming was grating and lacked the artistry behind the professional screamo bands Patrick enjoyed, yet Pete controlled the basement, striding around the space in front of the instruments as he belted his feelings.  The performance fit his appearance, since his thick eyeliner, ripped red pants, flimsy black tank top demanded attention that Pete's stage presence simultaneously commanded. At one point he moved right into the audience, making a beeline for Patrick, and rested the top of his head right into Patrick's chest as he continued to scream into the floor.  Patrick nearly swooned, though after thirty seconds, Pete was off again, tearing across the room.

The set was only about twenty minutes long.  Patrick had expected more, yet Pete's band was still pretty new and inexperienced, so it made sense.  Pete bounded over to Patrick as soon as he returned the microphone to its stand.

Patrick congratulated Pete, refraining from telling Pete what he really thought about his screaming and what Pete's stage presence had done to his body. As the next act switched and prepped their instruments,  Pete introduced Patrick to his band members. They seemed like a nice group, yet Patrick felt his self consciousness return to him as they recapped the set, leaving Patrick to just stand there, although Pete's hand on his forearm was a comforting anchor.

Eventually Pete suggested that they head upstairs so they could continue talking rather than yelling at each other over the band that was now playing.  Pete prodded Patrick towards the living room, leaving behind his band members in the crowded kitchen, mingling with other people.

Music continued to thrum through the overbearing speakers in the living room, yet now Simple Minds was blaring, which confused Patrick even more.  So much for finding a quieter space to talk, Patrick thought.  A few people sat on the couches, while others were dancing. 

"Do you wanna dance?" Pete asked, straining his already worn out voice from his show over the synthy first wave music.

"I don't really dance," Patrick figured going to middle school dances didn't really give him enough credentials to attempt this.

"It's the DePaul punks, you don't need to worry about knowing how or acting a certain way.  I mean did you see those people 'dancing' down in the basement.  The weird body jerking aesthetic means any play on the word dancing is okay in this house.  Also I've seen the way your body moves.  Those lunges are sharp.  I'm sure you can do this kind of thrusting."

"You are completely ridiculous, but fine.  Let's do this then."

"Excellent!" Pete's voice was downright giddy.

Pete dragged Patrick across the room, to an opening on the floor at the fringes of the crowd.  Dancing to "New Gold Dream" was not how Patrick pictured his first college party to proceed, especially since it seemed rather slow for dancing to, but he was getting that DePaul's punk community was very strange.

Pete grabbed Patrick's hips and slotted the two of them together, and then he started swaying to the music.

"As a kid, I used to think they were saying Eddie One, Eddie Two, Eddie Three, and Eddie Four rather than 81, 82, 83, 84," Patrick spoke directly into Pete's ear to distract himself from the intensity of so much Pete.

Pete laughed at that.  Their hips slowly moved in tandem, Pete setting the pace between the two of them. 

Patrick started out nervous, which he figured would subside as they danced, but it didn't abate.  His movements felt too sharp and staggered compared to Pete's.

He knew that Pete could feel that Patrick wasn't one hundred with him. "Just relax.  If you stop worrying, you'll loosen up and dance even better than you already are."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Flattery doesn't suit you."

"No seriously your dancing abilities don't matter.  Like, God, you're so hot."

"What?  Seriously?" Patrick blurted out.

"Yes, damnit, of course you are," Pete said, "And I really want to kiss you.  Especially with the way you're mouth is hanging open like that."

"Fuck."

"I mean can I please kiss you?" Pete said, leaning his torso away from Patrick, to give him some space and looking into his face.

"Yes.  Definitely.  One thousand percent yes," Patrick said, "Sorry, that was way too much.  You can take back your offer if you want."

"Christ, Patrick, no.  You basically articulated how I feel," Pete started guiding Patrick backwards.

The back of Patrick's legs hit the base of a couch.  Just as he was about to collapse onto it followed by Pete, Patrick steadied the two of them.

"No, wait, this couch is gross.  I am not touching it," Patrick said.

Pete groaned, "Cockblocked by your nagging desire for cleanliness."

"Look at that couch.  You're not the one who has to interact with it, since you would probably try to fit as much of you as you can on my lap.  The wall looks slightly less debauched.  I could tolerate that."

"Oh thank God," Pete said.

Patrick grinned and boldly pushed Pete against the wall, then moved in to kiss him.  Patrick pushed eagerly against Pete, and Pete opened his mouth receptively.  Their kiss deepened after a moment, beginning to explore each other's mouths with their tongues.  Simple Minds still floated around them, as they transitioned to desperate making out.  Patrick nearly panicked when he remembered that he was kissing a super hot punk college guy, yet he shoved those thoughts aside and allowed himself a moment of assuredness to slide his hands up under the sides of Pete's shirt.

They were interrupted by one of Pete's bandmates, who apparently found it very urgent and important to inform them that a group of people were going to smash some pumpkins with a baseball bat on the front lawn.

"Hey!  Fuck you!" Pete snarled at his bandmate.

Patrick ducked his head into Pete's chest, embarrassed.

"It's September," was all Patrick could manage to say.

"What about September?" the guy, who's name Patrick had forgotten said.

"It's early for pumpkins," Patrick said.

"I mean it's fall, so there are pumpkins," the guy shrugged.

Pete turned his attention back to Patrick, "Do you have to be home at a certain time?"

Patrick checked his phone, cursing himself for having deal with this and feeling a little embarrassed, "Yeah shit.  I completely missed my curfew."

Pete walked Patrick back out to his car, where dudes were indeed slamming a pumpkin with a baseball bat.

"Tell your mom sorry and that I'll be good with you in the future," Pete said.

"I hope you won't be," Patrick said.

"Well, I won't be, aside from getting you home on time."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely," Pete kissed Patrick again against his car, before breaking away and returning to the party.

Patrick grinned and climbed into his car.  He drove home blasting his Simple Minds cassette and replaying the night in his mind.

At home, he went into the house, clearly noting that he was just under an hour late and formulating excuses in his head.  He hoped he didn't smell too much like beer and weed.

His mother ambushed him as soon as he stepped foot in the house, "How was your night?"

"Great.  Pete's band didn't perform until late.  They had some equipment trouble then all the music got pushed back late, and I couldn't leave without seeing him perform.  I'm sorry.  It won't happen again.  Pete also told me to tell you he was sorry and won't keep me out too late again."

"That's okay.  First offense is excusable.  Tell me more about your night," she said.

Patrick shrugged, "Not much too tell.  We just stood around talking with his band.  They played.  They were kinda terrible, but it was fun to see Pete perform anyways.  Then I went home."

"You didn't drink right?" she asked.

"No of course not," Patrick got a little defensive.

"Okay good.  It's my job to check.  Don't act like that.  Speaking of which, you need to go to bed.  I am not letting you sleep in because of this."

"Okay mom.  Goodnight," he hugged her and headed up to his room.

He jerked off thinking of Pete in the shower, then headed to bed.

-

"Make your half step more prominent Patrick.  It has to convince the opponent that you're going to counter attack," Billie Joe demonstrated with his own half step.

Patrick executed a few more half steps followed by two retreats then an attack of his own.

"Good job," Billie Joe finished the lesson with a salute and a hand shake.

Patrick took off his mask and joined the group of fencers in the midst of bouting.  Patrick yawned, fighting off the lingering tiredness.  Saturday morning practices should be banned, in Patrick's opinion.

Pete finished up fencing a guy named Travis and motioned for Patrick to join him on the strip.  Patrick hooked up and saluted Pete.

"Ready fence," Patrick rushed off the on guard line.

He slowed down as soon as he was off and dropped his blade to a position away from the target, evading Pete's parries.  He deliberately stalked forward, swinging his blade out of Pete's clutches, and at just the right time, he lifted his blade towards the target.  After successfully landing the touch, Patrick backpeddled to the on guard line, and Pete stuck his tongue out at Patrick.

"You're such a child," Patrick laughed.

Pete flipped him off in response.

"Is that supposed to make you seem more mature?" Patrick said.

"Yeah, only adults get to curse," Pete said.

"Of course.  Let's get back to fencing."

"I can think of something more fun to do with dueling swords," Pete tone of voice was ridiculous.

"You're the worst."

"Yup," Pete dropped back down to his en gardé stance.

They both advanced towards each other.  They both missed after simultaneous attacks, and in close quarters, both of them tried to create enough space to jab their arm back and land a touch.  Just as Patrick was getting his wrist to guide the blade towards the hem of Pete's lamé, Pete stepped in again completely closing the distance between them, pressing his chest to Patrick's.  Pete used his non-dominant hand to grab at Patrick's ass.

"Pete! There are kids here," Patrick said.

"Sorry.  Although, I know where there aren't kids," Pete said, only slightly abashedly.

"Your dorm room," Patrick said, an edge of desperation to his voice as he fought with his hormonal feelings raging about due to Pete's proximity.

"Nope.  Well yes.  There too, but I was specifically thinking of the room with the spare equipment."

"Pete!" Patrick felt like he was getting redundant.

"Seriously Patrick.  I want you so badly right now, and nobody will know," Pete whined.

"Jesus, Pete, yes, yes, fuck it.  I do too, let's do it."

Patrick backed away from Pete, already feeling the loss of Pete's presence.  Patrick grinned at Pete, and stabbed him quickly with his foil, as Pete was distracted.

"Hey!" Pete said.

"I win.  My prize is you sucking me off," Patrick unhooked from the strip.

"It sounds more like I won considering this deal."

"Well that just means that we are very compatible.  I'll meet you in the storage room in a few minutes, 'kay?"

Pete nodded at him, and headed towards the front of the club.  Patrick dallied around for a bit, taking an elongated sip of water, re-taping one of his foils, and then finally slowly walking over to join Pete.

He surreptitiously looked around before sliding into the storage room and shut the door behind him.  Pete greeted him by pushing him up against the door.

"I locked it," Pete said between kisses.

Pete pushed Patrick's against the wall until he was flushed up against the flat surface.

They made out, Patrick exploring Pete’s mouth with vigor.

Pete dropped to his knees, “Can I blow you?”

“Yes, definitely.”

Pete smiled up at Patrick, as Patrick undid the velcro of his lamé and jacket, shoving them down to his ankles. Patrick stripped off of his plastron, and Pete followed suit.  They were finally left with their knickers and t-shirt.  Patrick snapped Pete's suspenders then used them to pull Pete in for another rough kiss, as Pete attempted to get Patrick's knickers down.  Pete finally pulled out Patrick’s cock, eyeing his boyfriend with a wide, excited grin.

Just as Patrick was about to beg for it, Pete cut Patrick off by taking him into his mouth.

Patrick thrust his hips away from the wall, further into Pete’s mouth.

"Woah, slow down. You're not a sabre fencer," Pete pulled off of Patrick to say as he pinned Patrick to the wall with one firm hand over his navel.

Patrick responded with a laugh that cut off as Pete began using his free hand to jack Patrick while he swirled his tongue around the head.  Unable to keep quiet despite the presence of young kids and their coach right outside the door, the laugh transitioned into a moan.

Pete was making little breathy noises as he worked his tongue, clearly loving it.  Patrick tugged on Pete's hair encouragingly and was rewarded with something that sounded akin to a purr.

"I think you just love this so you can get my hands in your hair," Patrick said.

Pete bit his thigh in response.

"I'm gonna have to deep throat you to prove you wrong," Pete said.

"One, I'm not sure how that would prove me wrong, and two that is the best threat I've ever received," Patrick was stuttering by the end in response to Pete taking him into his mouth.

Patrick rewarded him by carding through Pete's hair some more.  Pete hummed around him in approval and started using his mouth to fuck Patrick, increasing his speed as he went.

“Pete,” Patrick stammered as he neared climax, hoping Pete recognized the desperation in his voice, “Please."

The incessant beeping of machines from beyond the small room reminded Patrick to keep quiet.  Patrick bit down on his hand to prevent himself from moaning.  Pete sped up his movement, lips sliding up and down Patrick's cock at a rapid pace.  The tension became too much before he was pulling at Pete’s hair in a final warming.

Pete resisted Patrick’s pulls, and before Patrick could push Pete away more insistently, the stimulation became too much, and he came down Pete’s throat with hot waves of pleasure.  Pete continued to work Patrick with his hand through his orgasm as he swallowed.  The ground met Patrick as he slid down the wall, where Pete met him with light kisses once they were eye level.

Patrick deepened the kiss and pulled them both back to a standing position, allowing him to shove a thigh between Pete's legs.  Pete responded by eagerly rutting against Patrick, his movements marked with an erratic desperation.

Patrick began to suck a mark into Pete's collarbone, causing Pete to let out whiny breathes.

"I'm gonna be more marked up than the epee fencers," Pete said.

"Damn right."

Patrick finished off with a flourish, kissing the purple mark tenderly, then turned his attention to dealing with Pete's abundant clothing.  He worked Pete out of his knickers.

"Quiet," Patrick gave him one last preemptive warning, knowing from their previous exploits that Pete was  a screamer both on the strip and in bed.

Patrick took Pete in his hands, pumping his dick, responding to Pete’s pants and quiet moans.

“Come on Trick,” Pete pled, and Patrick sped up at his insistence.

Pete screwed his eyes up and came right as Patrick felt like he was losing control of the rhythm.

"I'm proud of you for not being too loud," Patrick rewarded Pete with a kiss.

"One of my finest moments," Pete looked around for something to clean themselves up with.

He eventually settled on sacrificing his own shirt, since the layers would cover him up completely regardless of whether he was wearing a shirt.  Pulling up with their clothing and attempting to flatten their hair, they made themselves as presentable and un-debauched looking as possible.

Patrick gave Pete a grateful kiss, “Wait a few minutes to join me.”

Pete grinned at him, as he slid out of the room.

Spencer was staring at him from the other side of the door.

“You forgot to put your suspenders on,” Spencer said, motioning to the suspenders hanging out awkwardly from under Patrick's lamé.

“You are completely right,” Patrick flushed and hurried away from the child, looking around for someone his age who might be too preoccupied with SAT scores or something to notice how obviously rumpled he looked.

Pete emerged from the storage room as Patrick bouted with an old dude.

Pete winked at Patrick as he found his own dueling partner, of the less sexual sort.

Roughly a half hour later, Patrick started packing up with Pete, so the two of them could go to hang out at Pete’s dorm, enjoying shower sex then a chill Saturday of John Hughes movies and cuddling.

They were fully in the swing of their marathon, currently in the middle of _Ferris Bueller_ , when Patrick got a text from his mother.

“My mom reminded me to work on my college applications,” Patrick interrupted Matthew Broderick trying to convince a restaurant host he was Abe Froman, the sausage king of Chicago.

“Later,” Pete attempted to pull Patrick back into his chest.

“No, she’s right.  My ED application is due in a few weeks,” Patrick shoved at Pete.

“It’s not due ‘til the end of October.  You’ll be fine.  You’re always worrying about this, so I know you’re putting a lot of effort into it.”

Patrick finally broke free of his octopus-like boyfriend and climbed off the bed, “The end of October is a few weeks away, and that’s exactly the problem, I spend most of my time worrying about them, never actually doing the application, since I’m too anxious to actually do it.”

“You’re no fun.”

Patrick ignored him and dug his laptop out of his backpack.  He pulled up his email, so he could get the latest copy of his essay that he had emailed to his favorite teacher for editing.  An email from the fencing coach at Northwestern caught his eye.

“The Northwestern coach just confirmed that he is going to be at the next NAC,” Patrick said.

“That’s great.”

“That’s horrible.  No, I mean it’s good.  It’s what I wanted.  I need him to see me again, for him to continue considering me for a scholarship, but I am going to be very, very stressed and anxious knowing he’s there watching me,” Patrick said.

“You’ll fence great.  You can beat me more than you used to.”

“Is that supposed to give me a confidence boost?” Patrick nearly sneered at Pete. “You’ve barely been trying.  All you want to do is get in my pants and goof off.  Pete, you’re one of the only fencers at the club who can beat me.  I need to really practice with you.”

“Oh, so your fencing abilities are my responsibility?  You seemed pretty fucking eager to ‘goof off’ with me today, if that is all this is too you anyways,” Pete’s voice rose to match Patrick’s, as he sat up in his bed.

“That has nothing to do with anything.  This isn’t about our relationship.  This is about me getting a scholarship to Northwestern, because that is the only way I can go to my dream school.  Maybe this isn’t even something you can fathom, since it just seems like you don’t care that much about my future.”

“What is your problem?  Of course I care!”

“Then stop goofing off!  Maybe I need a break from you, if you’re too immature to help me be productive and improve at fencing.”

“What the fuck?  You can’t pin this all on me.  You were the one saying that you were too anxious to write your college application.  Your responsibilities are completely your own.  Don't make your problems about me.  I get my own class work done, so you can deal with your own shit.  But if you can’t handle having a relationship and going to school then fine, I’ll see you at practice,” Pete said.

“Fine,” Patrick packed up his laptop, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and stalked out of Pete’s dorm.

-

The next day at practice was tense.

It was only a few seconds of Pete and Patrick being in the same room before Joe turned to Patrick and asked, “Did you and Pete break up?”

“No, yes, sort of.  We’re just taking a break,” Patrick said.

“Holy shit.  The Troy and Gabriella of fencing has shattered.  Romance is dead,” Joe said.

“Fuck off.”

Joe put his hands up in defense, “Woah, sorry.  Look, I’ll get you ice cream or something afterwards for you to cry into, or whatever bros are supposed to do post-breakups.”

“I told you it wasn’t a breakup.” Patrick softened looking at Joe’s crushed face. “Look, I’m sorry.  Maybe you’re right, I could use some ice cream or something like that.  Thanks for offering man.”

“Hug?”

“Sure,” Patrick opened his arms to let Joe envelop him in a comforting embrace.

“Okay dude, you’re going to fence for two hours, get your anger out, and then we’re going to cleanse your sadness with some overpriced ice cream.”

Patrick smiled at him and agreed to that plan.  He poured all his energy into fencing, probably being too aggressive with the young kids.  He could actually feel the tension draining out of him with each touch he scored.  He had fenced everyone at the club, until he was left facing Pete on the strip.  Patrick tried to avoid Pete’s gaze as they prepared to fence.

The bout was more aggressive than their usual fencing, devoid of their usual synchronicity and banter between touches.  Pete scored the first touch with a counter attack, and Patrick fumed, angry that he couldn’t land his attack against a cheap shot like that.  Patrick flechèd in the next phrase, taking Pete by surprise and landing a touch.

“Ready fence,” Pete took Patrick’s blade in an obnoxious prime that led to him earning another touch.

Patrick nearly scowled and tried not to think about stabbing Pete in the balls with his foil.  He figured that the thought alone of Pete crumbling to the floor in pain was satisfying enough.  He felt determined that his clean style of fencing could outdo Pete’s ridiculous flourishes.  A victory would be enough.

Patrick’s next few attacks were successful, but Pete pushed back winning a few touches of his own.  When the score was tied at nine-nine, they ended up infighting, in close quarters, Patrick expected Pete to fling his weapon over his head in his normal showy fashion; however, Pete jumped back and executed a simple attack with disengage, the type of maneuver Patrick would normally encourage.  Patrick’s frustration flared.  He haughtily shook hands with Pete and headed off the strip.

“I have no clue how foil works,” Joe said as the two of them took off their layers of outerwear, “But that bout looked intense.”

Patrick shrugged, “You were the one to tell me to get my anger out through fencing.”

“That’s true.  You took that to like new levels.  I’m kinda impressed.  I don’t think epee fencers can be that angry.”

A chuckle escaped from Patrick.

“I got you to laugh.  That is a good sign.  Let’s go drown our feelings in ice cream.  You can get the shitty toothpaste flavor with Oreos,” Joe picked up his bag and started heading out.

“Hey!  No knocking the mint ice cream.  The toothpaste flavor is where its appeal comes from,” Patrick trailed after Joe.

“Sure, whatever.  I’m getting chocolate, even though the person with the broken heart is supposed to be consuming chocolate.”

-

Patrick sat in French class conjugating verbs for a grammar worksheet under his stack of binders, hiding that he was doing the next day’s homework while talking to Bob about French art to get participation points.  The teacher wandered past them, and Patrick pushed his homework further out of sight and added verbose subjunctive sentences to his conversation about Matisse.  The last two practices Patrick attended had been devoid of Pete, which left Patrick feeling a mix of relief and disappointment. 

“It feels weird,” he said to Bob, still in French, as soon as the teacher was out of earshot.

“What does?”

“Not being with Pete.  We had only been together for a month, but I don’t know it just feels weird.  My phone doesn’t contain one hundred new messages every time I check between classes for one.”

“You’ll return to normal soon,” Bob gave him a soft reassuring smile.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Patrick said.

“Well maybe that’s a good thing.  Relationships should have an effect on you.  Do you want to hang with Ray and me this weekend?  I got the new Dragon Age.”

“That sounds good.”

The bell finally rang.  Bob and Patrick headed out as the teacher bid the class a good afternoon.  Ray joined them as they filed out into the senior lot surrounded by pushy students, eager to leave this certain level of hell for the day.  Patrick’s denim jacket shielded him from the slightly brisk October air as he stepped outside.  Patrick’s car appeared in view once he passed the first row of vehicles, yet today Pete was leaning against his car.  Patrick fought down the reflexive smile that wanted to take over his face at Pete’s ridiculous spiked hair and purple hoodie that looked like it belonged on a ten year old.

“Dude, what the fuck, you’re ex-boyfriend’s here,” Ray said.

“Ex-ish,” Patrick corrected him.

“Whatever.  Bob and I will let you two at it,” Ray gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before the two of them escaped to Bob’s beat up minivan.

Patrick stopped himself from grabbing Ray’s arm to prevent him from leaving, so he could potentially avoid a real talk with Pete.

“See you tomorrow Patrick.  Hey Pete,” Bob would probably deny it, but he was definitely taunting Patrick.

Patrick finished the walk to his car, ignoring the curious stares from the crowd of regulars who managed to wake up an hour early to get a coveted spot in the tiny senior parking lot.

“Hey,” Pete finally said, “How are you?”

“Fine,” Patrick answered cautiously, stopping three feet away from Pete, in front of someone else’s car.

“Sorry, I’ll skip the pleasantries.  I’m sorry.  I fucked things up.  I really really didn’t want to do that.  I want to help you succeed.  I’ll work on getting better at that,” Pete said.

“Thank you.  I’m sorry I was such an asshole about it,” Patrick moved in tentatively towards Pete.

“Does this mean we are done taking a break?” there was a bit of apprehension behind Pete’s words.

“Yes definitely, and I expect a makeup kiss. "Pete lit up, not unlike a puppy whose owner had just come home.  He surged forward and kissed Patrick.  Patrick kept it short, remembering the setting of their reconciliation.

“Come on asshole, I think I can balance some homework and a proper makeup makeout before my mom gets home.  You can even stay for dinner,” Patrick tugged Pete towards the front of his car.

“Your terms of endearment are as sweet as ever,” Pete climbed into the passenger seat. “Also hell yes, I missed your mom’s dinners more than I missed you.”

“Hey!”

“Dining hall food really puts things into perspective.”

Patrick shoved Pete’s arm, before switching the car into reverse.

“Does this mean we can still travel to the NAC together and room together and everything?” Pete asked.

Patrick hadn’t thought about the logistics of his trip to Dallas during their relationship’s hiatus, “Yes of course.”

“Sex in the room _after_ we fence?”

“If we still have the energy,” Patrick said.

“I can’t wait.”

-

The flight to Dallas and night in the hotel room went smoothly.  They ate dinner at a burger joint called the Twisted Root Burger, which had been amazing.  Pete had taken to calling Patrick Kermit all night after the restaurant had randomly assigned Patrick that name to announce when his food was ready.  Patrick wanted to retaliate, but Captain Jack Sparrow didn’t have quite the same effect.

Patrick had never been happier the morning of a NAC, yet he also had never felt more nervous.  He was used to being a loner at these events, not really having any friends at his club, leaving warming up to be a stressful game of Russian roulette guessing which strangers wouldn’t be an asshole to him and would give him some strip time bouting with them before the competition started.

However that morning, he woke up to his alarm at seven am, with Pete wrapped around him.  The two of them prepared for the day, grabbed a quick breakfast, and walked over to the convention center.

Pete joked about the furniture convention they were sharing the building with on the way to their own section.

Pete pulled Patrick aside before they split off to their strip assignments, gripping him by the shoulders and looking directly into his eyes, “Patrick.  You are shaking.  Stop.  I know it’s not that easy, but you’ve got this.  You’re good, and you work fucking hard.  Just think of me making some sort of fencing innuendo or something to distract you if you start getting nervous, ‘kay?”

“I’ll try,” Patrick said.

“Good.  Whoever finishes first comes and strip coaches the other.  Also, I told Billie Joe to not coach me today, so he should be with you a good amount.  Your BFFF has your back.”

“Thanks," then Patrick looked at him coyly, "Though I think that means best fucking friends forever now."

Pete laughed, lighting up with excitement.  Pete kissed him quickly and scurried off with his blades, mask, glove, extra body and mask cords, and water bottle.  Patrick set off on his own towards strip seventeen.

Pools went as well as Patrick could have hoped, starting off shaky due to nerves, but settling down and applying Billie Joe’s advice by the second bout.  He spent the break before the direct elimination round hanging out with Pete, eating and playing trivia games on their phones.

A tinny announcement for division one men’s foil preliminary results came through the speakers.  People nearly sprinted to the clusters of paper taped to boards throughout the convention hall.  Patrick grabbed the hood of Pete’s warm up jacket to prevent him from running away.

“I’m supposed to be the nervous one,” Patrick said.

“I’m not nervous.  I’m just excited and competitive.”

“Alright, then go, run ahead and tell me where I’m fencing and who.”

Pete darted off.  Patrick ambled over, apprehensively.

Pete finagled his way out of the crowd of people, “Shit.”

“What?  Do I have to fence an Olympian or something?”

“Worst.  If we both win the first round, you have to fence me,” Pete said.

“Shit,” Patrick echoed, “How did that happen?”

“You’re still listed as a member of Escrimè.”

“Of course.  I was supposed to fix that this summer, but I was too lazy and this morning I didn’t think twice about it.” Patrick sighed. “We’re just going to have to fence our best and see what happens.”

“Yeah,” Pete said, his voice sounding distant like he was already long gone on another train of thought.

Patrick shrugged it off and started worrying about his first DE bout.  It was easy enough; he didn’t have a bye in the first round.  Regardless, he spent most of the bout distracted by the possibility that the Northwestern coach was watching him.  The bout passed by in a blur of anxiety, with brief intermissions coming from Billie Joe’s comforting words of advice.  His mind wandered during the one-minute break in the bout, imagining the worst-case scenario and trying to think of alternatives to going to Northwestern.

By the time he was on the strip with Pete, he had managed to calm down enough for his hand to stop shaking while the ref tested the weight on his foil.

The bout started out much better than Patrick’s last bout.  Billie Joe’s words seemed to have finally begun to sink in, so he was able to slow his fencing down a bit.  However, Pete’s style of fencing was especially hard when Patrick was nervous and rushing.  Patrick was losing.  As much as he managed to gain right of way, the attacks were not landing.  He was three touches behind halfway through the bout, at only the first break.  He felt like it was hopeless, since the only way he could win was if he was in complete control of his anxiety, and that was not going to happen.

However, the tone of the bout shifted after the break.  Pete’s counter attacks came a moment later than needed to, and moreover, there were less of them.  Pete’s fencing was _clean_ , as if someone had transposed Patrick’s own style onto Pete.  The score stayed close, but Patrick came out on top at fifteen to twelve.  Patrick wanted to be happy, but he knew this was a very deliberate loss on Pete’s side.  He coldly shook Pete’s hand at the end of the bout, and Pete grinned at him, as if nothing was wrong.

Patrick stalked off to the bout committee to hand in the sheet, while he fumed.  How could Pete do this to him?  Pete caught up with Patrick at a deserted spot in the middle of the room.

“Your next bout will go great!” Pete said.

“What the fuck?  Why would you do that to me?”

Pete’s face fell, “What do you mean?”

“You threw the bout!  How do you think that’s okay?” Patrick hissed, attempting to keep his voice down.

“What?  No, I gave this up for you.  You don’t get to yell at me; you are so ungrateful.”

“How is this about me being ungrateful?  This is about you thinking that I couldn’t beat you on my own,” Patrick’s voice rose.

“Of course I think you can beat me, but you were nervous, so I just wanted to make sure you were going to win.”

Patrick looked around desperately searching for an out, feeling done with the conversation and wanting to mentally prepare for his next bout.  He just wanted to fence well, since he was nearly positive that he was going to lose.

“That is ridiculous.  Stop being so self centered, and just accept that I did something nice for you,” Pete dragged Patrick out of his nervous thoughts.

“No, you don’t get to say that.  He didn’t even get to see me fence to my full potential.  He could probably tell that you were fencing down, or at least that something was off.  That was not a good bout.”

“That doesn’t matter.  He saw you win two bouts, and now he’s going to get to see you fence a great difficult bout.”

“You know what Pete?  I can’t handle this right now.  Stop talking.  Let me fence my last bout, and I don’t want to see your face during it,” Patrick sighed.

“No, don’t leave.  I want to talk about this.  You're mad at me for no reason, and we should talk this out.  I don’t want to break up for like two days or whatever again,” Pete stomped his foot in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a five year old.

Patrick shook his head, “No.  I really can't handle this right now.  Please leave me alone.”

“Fine.  Just don’t let my gesture go to waste.  You basically just told me you know you’re going to lose.  That’s awful.  I know you can win.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Patrick ran off.

Weirdly enough, he managed to fence pretty well for his last bout, since his anger towards Pete translated as aggression on the strip and distracted him from thinking about the Northwestern coach.  He still lost, but not as badly as he had anticipated.

He found Joe after he finished fencing.

“Not again,” Joe said.

-

Patrick knocked tentatively on his own hotel room door.

Pete had sent three texts over the course of the past four hours.

 _Can we please talk_?

_I’m sorry._

_Let me know if you want to kick me out of the hotel room.  But I’m there now, and I really want to talk to you._

Patrick was thankful for the out Pete had offered him, but he knew, despite himself, that Pete was right, even if he was exhausted and did not feel like getting into another emotionally taxing discussion.

“Hey Pete,” Patrick joined Pete on the bed, carefully perching himself on the edge, diagonal from Pete.

“I meant it in those texts.  I’m sorry.  I totally get what you were feeling.  I’m not sure if I’m at a place where I regret my decision, but I completely get why you reacted the way you did.  I shouldn’t have said a lot of the things I said to you."

“I’m sorry I acted the way I did too.  I shouldn’t have yelled at you.  I didn’t mean a lot of it, and I get why you threw the bout.  I appreciate the intentions behind it.”

Pete looked at him, hopefully, yet still withdrawn, “I will communicate with you better in the future.”

“Or just not be such a dingus,” Patrick smiled at him.

Pete finally grinned, “Never.  I’m your dingus.”

“Good,” Patrick crawled over towards Pete, “Then let’s hug and make up.”

Patrick folded himself into Pete’s embrace, settling across Pete’s lap.

Pete’s hands carded through Patrick’s hair, and he laid small kisses across the top of Patrick's head.

“We should eat dinner,” Pete said.

Patrick mumbled an agreement into Pete’s stomach.  It took them another half hour to drag themselves out of bed.

They stumbled back into the hotel room an hour or so later, completely worn out from the day of fencing, fighting, and reconciling.  Pete grasped Patrick’s hand as they entered the lobby.

Patrick glanced around the elevator, decided he didn't care about the aging man in the business suit in the far corner, and whispered to Pete, "So I think I could conjure up some energy for a bout tonight."

"You somehow just managed to make sex sound like a cross between a Yu-Gi-Oh! duel and a fencing competition," Pete notable did not whisper, causing the man in the ill-fitted suit to glare at them.

"What? No.  Like maybe for the fencing part, but where did you get the Yu-Gi-Oh! comparison from?  That doesn't have anything to do with what I said."

"I don't know.  Maybe the word 'conjure' just made me think of Seto Kaiba, who was definitely my first crush, 'conjuring' the blue eyes white dragon, because that gets me hot."

"Am I going to have to duel Seto Kaiba for your love?" Patrick raised an eyebrow at Pete.

Pete bracketed his arms around Patrick and got up in his face, "Mmm, yeah, I'd like that."

Patrick laughed, "God, I am getting images that I immediately need to get out of my head."

"I'll just have to distract you," Pete made a move towards Patrick's neck, but was interrupted by the ding of the elevator.

The scandalized looking business man, possibly furniture salesman, rushed out the doors before they were completely open.  Patrick dragged Pete out of the elevator, before Pete could manage to resume trying to kiss him.

"Race you there," Patrick suggested so that there was a hope of them actually making it back to the room without Pete getting too distracted.

Pete sprinted ahead, while Patrick calmly walked the rest of the length down the hideously carpeted hallway.

Once in the room, Pete kicked off his shoes and took a running leap onto the bed and pulled Patrick down on top of him as soon as he was within range of the bed.

They kissed slowly, and Pete moved onto biting his way down Patrick's neck.  He was interrupted by a loud yawn from Patrick.

"Sorry," Patrick buried his face into Pete's hair, a little embarrassed.

"Awww 'Trick.  It's okay. We should go to bed.  It's been a long day."

Patrick reluctantly agreed with him.

"These clothes are too uncomfortable to sleep in.  Why did I think wearing jeans and a button up shirt would be a good idea?" Patrick whined.

"Well there's the scandalous idea of us just taking our clothes off."

"Oh my, now that wouldn't be proper would it," Patrick teased back.

Pete started working at Patrick's shirt buttons.  Deft fingers teased across Patrick's stomach, and he shivered involuntarily as his last button was undone.  Pete ducked in for a quick kiss to Patrick's lips, before sliding the shirt off.  He ran a hand up Patrick's stomach reverently.

"This is not going to sleep," Patrick said, trying to ignore the arousal that was slowly building in him under Pete's teasing slide of fingers across his body.

Pete giggled, "You remind me of an old Russian coach.  'This is not fencing.'"

"Your Russian accent is terrible, but I know the exact type."

Pete's hand suddenly dipped below Patrick's waist and brushed across his dick, in a manner that was probably genuinely accidental. His body moving on its own accord, Patrick keened up into Pete's touch. The sudden pressure of Pete's hand shot hot waves throughout his body, and he decided that going to sleep in this state was not going to happen.

"Fuck it Pete, jerk me off before bed," Patrick shimmied out of his pants.

"I would be honored to."

"Knock it off," Patrick reached over to help Pete out of his tight jeans.

He squeezed Pete through his briefs, and then they simultaneously stroked each other to full hardness after removing any remaining clothes.  Patrick pumped Pete's cock in time with Pete's movements, beginning to pant quietly.

"Shit Patrick, I really really want to go down on you.  I thought I was too tired, but you feel so good, and I want more," Pete said.

"Oh God yes," Patrick said, extremely happy that he was lucky enough to find a boyfriend who was way more enthusiastic than average about giving head.

Pete slid down the bed and onto the floor.  Patrick followed him, until his legs were hanging off the edge of the hotel bed and wrapped around Pete's shoulders.  Pete licked a stripe down the underside of Patrick's cock before taking him into his mouth.  Patrick gasped at the sudden warmth and wetness enveloping him.  Pete started fucking him with his mouth, slowly yet tightly.  Patrick, still slightly overwhelmed with tiredness, let his body react to the amazing sensations coming from Pete's mouth.

"Faster," he pleaded, as tension began to build up in the base of his stomach.

Pete appeased him.

Patrick suddenly pulled Pete towards him by his hair, stopping himself from tumbling over the edge, "I want us to come together."

"That sounds good," Pete climbed back onto the bed and on top of Patrick.

Patrick returned to jerking Pete, immediately at a quick pace, and Pete mirrored him, stroking Patrick in time.  Patrick came with a stuttered groan, followed by Pete a few seconds later.  Pete collapsed onto Patrick in the aftershocks of the orgasm, while Patrick lazily trailed kisses across Pete in haphazard directions.

"I'd say overall this weekend was a success," Patrick said.

"That's wonderful to hear.  Three cheers for heteronormativity, granting us the ability to share a hotel room."

"Hear, hear!" Patrick climbed out from under Pete, "Let's clean ourselves off a bit then go to bed for real."

"Excellent idea."

A minute later, Pete curled up around Patrick, still naked, and fell asleep at a speed he only managed when Patrick was with him.  Patrick listened to Pete's steady breathing before following him into a contented sleep.

-

One year and one week later, Patrick looked over to the bleachers anxiously.  The bout was tied four-four: match point.  He caught Pete's encouraging hand motions, telling him to slow down his attacks.

"Ready fence."

Following the referee's command, Patrick started an attack, moving at just the right tempo.

He landed into the opponent's flank as the Brandeis fencer counter attacked.

"Attack left, touch, bout, five-four," the ref called Patrick's victory.

The rest of Northwestern's foil squad hopped onto the strip, giving him congratulatory pats on the back.

He ran over to Pete, "I listened to you."

"Amazing.  You should try doing that more often."

"Yeah," Patrick leaned in and kissed Pete.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the lack of sentence structure, the cringe-worthy smut, and the excessive use of detail especially concerning fencing jargon.
> 
> hit me up [on tumblr](http://foilfaerie.tumblr.com) to ask me questions or chat about the fall out gays or fencing.


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